


soul of a poet

by orphan_account



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, accidental poetry, compliments, nothing sexual i would never do that to clay, sappy romance, star wars but not important, they're just dopey gays, yes all those relationship tags are the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Pat looks back at him with wide eyes and Clayton panics for a few seconds. A million thoughts pass through his mind. Maybe he was too forward, maybe he was being too dramatic, maybe he was waxing poetic, slipping too much into his artistic mindset as he spoke. He breathes a sigh of relief when Pat finally cracks a smile.“Clayton, you never told me you were a poet.”





	soul of a poet

**Author's Note:**

> general rpf warnings, takes place not in our world obviously and if ur name is paul e gone please leave

The first time Clayton flusters Pat is entirely unexpected.

They’re alone, of course, because neither of them like the whole “public displays of affection” thing. It isn’t like they’re on a date or anything, they’re just up late watching movies at Clayton’s apartment. It’s Star Wars, the newest one, that Pat can’t remember the name of for the life of him, and that Clayton would normally be paying the utmost attention to if he weren’t sitting next to Patrick, their fingers intertwined. Hell, he isn’t even sure if he’s doing that right. Pat hadn’t corrected him when they started holding hands, so he hopes it’s still alright.

When he glances over at the dark-haired man, who seems to be enthralled by whatever fight scene is happening, he is overcome with something. He’s not sure what, but something about the way the moonlight reflects off his hair and his glasses, and how it catches the white patch in his beard just so, makes Clayton wish he could frame the shot to film and keep forever.

He wants to verbalize all of this, of course, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt the movie. Doesn’t want to interrupt the moment itself. Doesn’t want to mess up somehow. His mind races with things he could and should say.

When the movie ends and Pat lifts his head up from where it had been resting on Clayton’s shoulder - when did that happen? He isn’t sure. - he’s suddenly thrust back into reality. Pat looks at him and smiles, and he gets so lightheaded that he’s pretty sure he’s going to pass out right there on his own couch.

It takes him a few minutes of silence and enjoying each other’s company to figure out what he’s going to say, because he can’t not say anything, right?

“Y’know, Pat, you- uh- you look wonderful in the moonlight like that. It looks like when the moon reflects off the ocean and it curves with the moving waves, you know? And, like, it bounces off your glasses and hits the wall kind of like stars? Or like shooting stars, I guess, because it leaves a line and not a single dot,” Clayton rambles for longer than he means, going off the rail from what he originally wanted to.

Pat looks back at him with wide eyes and Clayton panics for a few seconds. A million thoughts pass through his mind. Maybe he was too forward, maybe he was being too dramatic, maybe he was waxing poetic, slipping too much into his artistic mindset as he spoke. He breathes a sigh of relief when Pat finally cracks a smile.

“Clayton, you never told me you were a poet.”

It’s only then, when Pat glances away for a moment, that Clayton notices the pink dusting his cheeks, and how it meets his hair, the rim of his glasses, how every part of his face meets in clean lines and sharp edges. It’s beautiful, he thinks.

“Well, I’m no poet, I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

“I would. That was beautiful, Clay.”

“You’re an inspiring muse.”

“When did you get so fucking good at flirting?” Pat nudges his shoulder and smiles like an idiot. Clayton can’t help but reflect the expression. “Can I kiss you?” The question makes him smile wider; he knows how lucky he is to have a boyfriend who respects his boundaries.

“Please.” 

And they do kiss, sitting on Clayton’s couch under a knit blanket, lit by the dim glow of the television replaying the menu of The Last Jedi and the moonlight coming through the window. Clayton still finds himself wondering how the scene would look in a film.


End file.
